SHE SUNG OF LOVE.
She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell,
As if to feed with their soft fire
The soul within that trembling shell.
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
And play'd around those lips that sung
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,
If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.
But soon the West no longer burn'd,
Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew;
And, when to gaze again I turn'd,
The minstrel's form seem'd fading too.
As if her light and heav'n's were one,
The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
As from a parting spirit, came.
The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines
in Mr. Rogers's Poem of Human Life, beginning—
”Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly.”
I would quote the entire passage, did I not fear to put my
own humble imitation of it out of countenance.
Who ever loved, but had the thought
That he and all he loved must part?
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught
The fading image to my heart—
And cried, “Oh Love! is this thy doom?
“Oh light of youth's resplendent day!
“Must ye then lose your golden bloom,
“And thus, like sunshine, die away?”
